The Great Plains
by Zo One
Summary: Freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose. America has doubts.


**The Great Plains**

Summary: Freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose.

_Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose._ – Janice Joplin

Sometimes he couldn't help but to wonder. He couldn't help but to wonder about things that had never crossed his mind before; things that probably shouldn't have crossed his mind.

He sat at his large wooden desk, mitigated behind its looming importance. The room was dark save a single lamp that cast a long, orange light upon the stacks of forms and papers that were spread across the wooden surface. The pen in his hand hung lifelessly between lax fingers as he glared at the white and black sheet before him, seeing and not seeing all at once.

There was something black and pressured looming in the back of his mind, not unlike a caged beast, hungry and starving for release. It made the words on the page set before him dance and blur whenever he tried to concentrate on his work. But it was that question – those few words. A few words shouldn't be able to do something like this to him. He was the United States of Mother Fucking America! Words; what were words to him?

Nothing, that's what.

He stabbed the pen tip into the paper, watching the ink bleed into the crisp, white paper, staining the document with the black he felt oozing within himself. With a sigh he pulled the pen away and crumpled the form up in a fist, tossing it into a nearby wastebasket. If anyone asked where it had gone, he'd just request a new copy and finish it at the last minute. He was good at that – doing things at the very last minute (mostly budget plans – he hated thinking about how much money he _didn't _have right now).

But this! America yanked his glasses from his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly – a sound of exasperation forcing an escape from his lips.

In all honesty, he truly disliked arguing with the other nations. In fact, he'd prefer it if they'd just _listen_ to what he had to say. Sometimes it felt as if they'd all reached a mutual consensus to simply disagree with everything he said before he could finish. He couldn't help the anxious poison and dejection that rose bitterly into his throat every time it happened. They all hated him – but he was strong; he wasn't stupid. He knew they simply dealt with him, because they couldn't deal _without _him either. He just wanted to be heard.

And they wondered why he was so loud.

But sometimes he simply couldn't agree with a nation – when their actions were so unethical that his people's thoughts and opinions imprinted themselves onto him. And maybe today, at the meeting, he had been a little unfair with his words towards Japan and some of his new policies. The island nation was still picking up the fragile pieces of his nationwide crisis, even after all these years. And he'd had to go and open his mouth and voice his people's harsh opinions, like a geyser bursting full of steam that erupted from his chest and spilled messily from his lips.

Japan had sent him a bitingly sharp glance then, his brown eyes smoldering with an anger that he refused to show.

"_And what do you know of freedom, America-san?"_

Those words – it was as if they had been sharpened like sticks and plunged into the very core of his spirit. Like Japan had sucker punched him in the gut with the twitch of his mouth. Of course he'd practically recited The Constitution in response, but…

He couldn't help but wonder about it. What had Japan meant? Was his own answer satisfactory? – Well of course it was. But still, something sat uneasily with him, and he felt restless, queasy; _wrong_.

"_Ugh!_ What does Japan know, anyway?" he ground out to himself, standing from his desk and whisking his jacket from the coat rack by the door. "I'm The U.S. of fucking A, I pretty much _founded _freedom!"

America huffed to himself, feeling the strange emotion of uncertainty well up inside of him and he squashed it down with haughty anger as if it were simply a bug; a roach that refused to die. His feet carried him down the darkened streets, lights from houses and streetlamps shining brightly amongst the piercing black – like beacons of hope that weren't his; they belonged to others and he was no part of it. It was a lonely feeling, and he let his eyes fall to the tops of his shoes as he mindlessly dragged himself home.

Everything he did was mechanical – robotic – as he toed off his loafers and threw his jacket onto the sofa. He should've stopped by McDonalds – or even Burger King (there was a twenty-four hour one somewhere around here); his stomach growled from neglect, and his head throbbed from overstimulation. He needed something that would fill his stomach and cure his headache.

Well, _he _should still be in town, right?

Dear Lord, he was getting desperate if he was actually considering that before all other options simmered out. America pulled his cell phone from his pocket and set it on the kitchen counter, giving it a long, nasty glare, as if the device was the source of all his current woes. And maybe it was – he could probably come up with a suitable reason. But he wasn't in the mood to be creative right now. He was pissed, hungry and tired (something he seemed to be a lot these days).

The refrigerator held no solace for him either. Only half a carton of questionable milk and week old… maybe it was meatloaf, sat nestled within; the doors filled with mustard, ketchup, and yogurt. Nothing of the sustenance he desired.

"_And what do you know of freedom, America-san?"_

God-_fucking_-dammit!

He twirled around, snatching up his phone in a rage. It sat heavily in his hand like an omen, and he contemplated throwing it against the wall for a brief moment. On their own accord, the pads of his fingers dusted over the glowing numbers, pausing to dial the too familiar number.

The phone pressed itself against the shell of his ear. He shouldn't be doing this. He really, honestly shouldn't be doing this. The ring tone was loud in his ear and it made his head pound slightly. His blue eyes narrowed in a suppressed wince. He should hang up.

"'_Ello?"_

Too late. He bit his bottom lip, slowly pulling it through his teeth as he desperately thought of something decently roundabout to say. "Hi… It's me, uh, America." Of course he knew that, the man had caller ID! Why was everything so hard to say today? Sometimes he hated his people for having such strong opinions – hated himself that he agreed with them half the time – hated how weak that made him. "Uh, what're ya doing tonight?"

The sound of forcibly calm breathing resounded through the phone and he leaned against the kitchen wall, glaring halfheartedly at the dim ceiling lighting. _"Sleeping," _was the rather cut and dry answer.

Why did it feel as if he'd just had the door slammed in his face? He wasn't even saying anything stupid – at least he didn't think so (nothing about aliens, movies, scones or anything). America's breathing hitched a little, his breaths jagged with an emotion that bled thick and slow. "Right. Nighttime – I get it. I'll get hammered alone, 'kay thanks bye."

He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it angrily into the pocket of his pants. Locating his tennis shoes, he stomped into them, ignoring that he was bending down the heels, and ripped the door open. There was a twenty four hour gas station down the block. He'd just buy a shit ton of Keystone or something – whatever they had, he didn't care anymore.

As he trudged down the empty sidewalk, the wind whispering solemn tones in his ear, he pulled his phone from his pocket and stared down at it – hoping, _praying_, even, that the other nation would call him back. Even if was just to yell at him for being rude and hanging up suddenly (not like he would even bother hoping for an apology for being a jerk, but the thought was still there). And with every step he took that the phone didn't ring, another heavy brick stacked itself onto his chest, pressing on his lungs until it was too difficult to breathe without hupping pathetically.

The woman behind the front counter regarded him carefully, and he realized somewhat belatedly that he must look like a mess – or at least like he was on the verge of crying (which he wasn't – it was that damn weight on his chest that just wouldn't go the fuck away). She gave him a weary smile as he pulled two cases of Sam Adams from the coolers and set them on the counter. She rang them up slowly, her hands fidgeting slightly. "I hope your day's been well," she murmured quietly, attempting at awkward politeness as the register took its time tallying up his final total.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," he replied, deadpan, pulling out a few crumpled bills from his wallet and handing them to her. Tired, he grabbed the cases from the counter and left, not bothering to collect his change. Change – fuck that shit. He was perfectly fine the way he was – with everything the way it was.

Because that's why he was walking down the street to go drink at home; alone.

He shouldered open his door when he got home. After kicking off his shoes, he plodded into the kitchen and stuffed one of the cases into the fridge (he had plenty of room inside), and opened his first bottle. America purposefully ignored the person sitting leisurely on his couch as he tipped his head back and gulped down half of the bottle. Summer Ale, eh? It tasted like piss mixed with lemons. But that summed up his life right about now. What was it – when life gives you lemons, make lemonade? Life could take those lemons and shove them up its –

"You're not going to greet your guest?" That accent, so vowel-y and lilting. Something familiar and bittersweet rose into his chest and he happily allowed it to spill over the dark ooze that had wedged its way between his ribs. A temporary fix to a long-term problem. He was good at temporary fixes.

America snorted, taking another drink. "Not a guest," he answered, irate, "Guests are normally invited in."

England sat up in the couch, leaning over the armrest to flick on a lamp light and to stare at him more easily with narrowed green eyes. "I invited myself in. You didn't lock your door."

He shrugged, he really should change out of his suit clothes, and he would probably need them again in a couple of days when the next round of meetings began. "I hardly ever lock it. Who'd even try and break in anyway? – Other than crazy nations, of course. 'M the fucking U.S.A… goddammit…"

"I fail to see the relevance of that," the blond nation said with an upward hitch of one of his large brows. "How much have you had already?"

America simply shook his now nearly empty bottle, nibbling lightly on his lower lip to taste at the lemon of the alcohol. "Just started, actually." He downed the rest of the drink and tossed the bottle in the sink, picking up the next one and popping off the cap, listening to it fizz for a silent moment. "So why're you even here? Want to watch me do something stupid, or what? I've done plenty of that today."

The island nation gave a small frown. "Actually, I came to make sure you won't do anything stupid. Don't need you to hurt yourself."

"I ain't a kid," was his harsh, expected reply. He knew England wasn't treating him like a child – hell, he was sitting here downing beer like it was water in a desert, but he couldn't help himself. He wasn't a child; he wasn't – he didn't need anyone telling him not to spit, to get to work on time, to fix his tie or anything like that! "God fucking dammit."

He grabbed the case of beer and brought it into the living room, setting it on the floor before sitting beside it, his back pressed against the couch, next to England's crossed legs. "You brought your embroidery with you?" he asked incredulously when he spotted the familiar white cloth and wooden circle resting on the other nation's lap. Why wasn't he surprised? He wasn't much more amusing than sewing anyway.

"It's to keep my hands busy," England replied easily, sinking back into the couch cushions as America turned on the television. "America… what's-"

"– Idle hands are the Devil's playthings," America interrupted, taking the beer bottle by the neck and drinking deeply. His blue eyes slid from the flickering T.V. to England's face. "Isn't that what you used to always tell me?"

And there he was, bringing up the past again. He grimaced at himself, watching as England took up his embroidery with a discouraged sigh. The past – sometimes he hated it; was glad he didn't have to relive it, although he did, almost every day. It was like crawling through a tunnel of sludge with only one direction to go. America frowned at the bottom of his bottle.

"You're drinking it too fast. At least the alcohol take effect before you drink more."

He pouted slightly, ripping off the cap of bottle number three. "I'll do whatever I want," he huffed, not unlike a child. England only rolled his eyes, his fingers working deftly on the stitchery in his hands. Sometimes America wished he had a hobby like England's – kind of. Normally he just worked, whether it be in the office or in the fields of his country, or if it was during UN meetings or anything else. He'd never just sat down and created something like… like a handkerchief or whatever the hell England made. Model airplanes, yes; computers, yes; art, no. Maybe he should try…?

Yeah fucking right.

America groaned. Maybe the alcohol was starting to work its magic. Damn, he hoped so.

England shot him a curious glance. In the dim lighting, his eyes looked like a dark, swirling green – nothing like the bright, happy green that America remembered so well; smiling green, like sunshine on leaves and other nature-y bullshit. "Are you alright, America?" The words were soft, barely discernable over the racket coming from the T.V. He turned it off with an unconscious push of a button.

His stomach was in knots, twisting and writhing in the pit of his gut. He wanted to throw up – to drink more beer; then maybe snuggle in bed with warm blankets and a pillow to hold. He wanted to hear more soft words, he wanted… so much… "Ugh," he moaned, "I'm so fucking lame…"

"…Is there something?" He was retarded – the beer was making him stupid (good, now he had an excuse; fuck Japan), he felt warm and sad and conflicted as he looked up at England's confused face. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear, or maybe, maybe become an eagle and fly away; to live in the skies – to be free and…

"_And what do you know of freedom, America-san?"_

America buried his face in his hands, ignoring the cold sensation of beer spilling down the leg of his pants and soaking into his sock. "I hate Japan!" he growled out into his cupped palms as if they'd stop his words and he could hold onto them forever and still have the feeling of them being said. "Of course I know what freedom is! I _am _freedom!"

There was a small tatting noise from England and he chanced a look. His heart leapt and dropped at the same time, leaving him feeling slightly breathless. "You're still on about that?" England asked softly, setting his needle work aside to take a seat on the floor next to America.

"No. I have no idea what you're talking about. Of course I'm not thinking about that stupid question – why would I?" America set his beer down to the side, if just to give him something to do other than look at England's face. That expression… that kind expression that said, "Let me show you, America. Let me teach you," when he didn't want to understand; he didn't want to learn. It made him feel small, insignificant, and stupid.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and pried his wet sock from his foot. England reached over and grabbed his chin, forcing eye contact. He was only obeying because he was starting to feel the alcohol – his motor skills were slowing and his inhibitions were easing; he wouldn't let the island nation touch him like that if he wasn't buzzed. That's all. "America, what is freedom?"

He paused, his eyes squinting in suspicion. It was a trick question, wasn't it? He was going to say something and then England would rub it in his face about how he was wrong – goddamn he hated being wrong. "…It's about choice," he mumbled uncertainly to the stagnant air after a long, pregnant pause.

"Aha! And there's your answer," England said with a tiny grin, tapping him on the chin as he let go of America's face.

America frowned deeply. "What are you talking about? There's no freedom there. There's no choice." His hands fisted angrily and he could almost feel the xenophobic disgust of his less savory national groups well up within him. Wouldn't it just be easier if they all agreed – they as nations? Freedom, justice, liberty – that's what they should all agree on. Why didn't they?

England gave him a sad smile, his fingers playing with the hem of his sweater vest. "… so sinful," the island nation muttered to himself. "I, ah, have you ever thought that maybe choosing not to choose is indeed a choice after all?"

"…What?" He shook his head, his eyes screwing shut. It was as if England were pouring liquid blasphemy in his ears, and his headache from earlier came back at full force, pounding loudly against his skull every time he thought about anything that remotely pertained to what had just been said to him. "Ugh, stop talking old man. You're making my head hurt."

With an irate sigh England leaned back and away from him, his fingers dancing along his vest. Devil's playthings indeed. "You're just saying that because you don't to admit that I might be right."

That was a strong possibility.

America looked away from England's face; picking up his discarded beer bottle only to have it pried it away from his hands gently. He didn't put up much of a fight. Beer wasn't going to solve anything, but damn, he wished it did. "Don't you think you've had enough for one night?"

"Not really," he replied simply, but made no move to grab another bottle. "Hey, I have a question."

There was a somewhat expectant look on England's face and it made America pause for a moment. Something within him hoped he didn't say the wrong thing – anything that would make that face become dejected or unimpressed. He wanted England to smile, to be proud of him; to stop being ashamed whenever he couldn't help but voice the stupidest things his people thought. He wanted to become better as a country – as a person, he wanted to be great and strong and he wanted to spread peace and justice across the globe. And he wanted to stop being so hypocritical.

"Go on," the island nation urged, setting a restless hand reassuringly upon his shoulder.

He looked to his knees, knocking them together as a wave of sticky sadness washed over his skin with a sudden chill. "Do you… do you ever regret?" he asked, mumbling softly into his knees, half hoping that England couldn't hear him.

England's hand pulled away from his shoulder, and he looked over to see sheer confusion plastered on that oh-so-familiar face – one that was so perfect in his memories; like a shining portrait that might've smudged the details a little for visual purposes. But even now, sitting in front of him, England wasn't ugly – maybe a bit homely, but not really, and America liked that somehow. It made England seem real – like he wasn't just a figment of his imagination. That his imperfections made him perfect. And what an oxymoron that made him.

A long silence blanketed over them – stringy and thick. America shifted uncomfortably. "Regret things like what?" England finally asked in response.

"I don't know… things… decisions – you know?" He sighed into the caps of knees, burying his nose between them. "I just… I don't know."

England remained silent, pressing his back further into the couch as he crossed his arms across his chest. America didn't want to look at him – didn't want to see what kind of expression he wore. But England only sighed. There was no cursing, no barely veiled insults; nothing that suggested he was upset in any fashion. "Of course I regret things, America," he answered steadily, and at that moment America could imagine the island nation bringing a little teacup to his lips to sip at it elegantly – like he always did when he felt like saying something profound or important. "But it doesn't mean I dwell upon them. Mistakes of the past are what make us who we are today – if I recall correctly, you're the one that told me that."

America buried his face harder into his knees, the eyepieces on his glasses pressing uncomfortably into his nose. "I… I guess so. But don't you ever wish you could go back and change things? Even just sometimes?"

"I… What are you getting at?" England's hands were back on him, forcing his face away from his knees, pulling his hands from his legs. "…America…"

"It's just! Sometimes I want to go back, England. I want to fix things – but I can't." His blue eyes pried away from England and landed heavily on the case of beer next to him. One more wouldn't hurt; and he deftly plucked one up. "How am I supposed to fix leaving you, if I can't go back and change it?" he asked sourly, his voice soft and tired as he twisted open the bottle cap of the beer.

England's hands stilled; one placed on his shoulder, and the other on his knee. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I wanted my freedom but I didn't want to hurt…"

Bah, freedom. That word again.

He had wanted his freedom – his choice; he'd chosen it. So, by his own definition, wouldn't he have already been free just by choosing to be so? Holy shit, why was this so complex? His mind reeled within his skull, and all he wanted to do was to go back in time and remember everything that had made life so damn amazing. Why was everything better back then? It was shinier and more beautiful and England would smile and God fucking dammit!

"You can fix it, by just staying with me now." America blinked owlishly as his mental tangent was derailed by those simple words. So simple. Why hadn't he thought of it before? "You can do that, right, America?"

And when had England started saying his name so fondly? Had it always been like that? Was he just now noticing? Or maybe he was still feeling the effects of his two – wait, three, four beers? "Of course," he said stubbornly, snuffing his nose with his thumb. "I promised you – my people, too – that no matter what, I'd be there for you." He frowned. "I don't break my promises."

England's face held a small smile before he looked away from America, folding his hands quickly into his lap. "Ah… you…" He sighed, sounding tired and happy at the same time. "I would ask if you had tea, but considering that this is your house –"

"I keep that Earl Grey stuff in the cabinet above the fridge," America interrupted, letting his head fall back onto the cushion of the couch. He was prone, tired, and disheveled, but he was with England, so he supposed it was okay. Because England was the only one allowed to see him like this; broken.

For a long moment the older nation seemed to be stunned into a silence, watching America as if he'd grown a second head. "You drink tea?" he asked after a long, dredging moment.

America shook his head, allowing it to roll back and forth on the cushion of the couch. "Nah – not really… Coffee's better, I think. But I keep it around so that way you'll have somethin' to drink when you visit. But, ah… you never really ask."

"I… what?" The room was filled with an awkward silence. It suffocated America, pressing on his mouth and nose uncomfortably. He grimaced and took another drink from his bottle. Just a little more wouldn't hurt. "Honestly, you need to stop."

America shrugged. Maybe he should. Didn't mean he wanted to, though. "So…" he trailed off, unable to think of anything suitable to say. "I don't know. England, when you think of freedom, what's the first thing that comes to mind?" he decided to ask. His lips seemed to be moving on their own, but the words that spilled from his mouth made complete sense to him. Maybe he should just start talking and think less. Yes, his headache said that was a wonderful idea.

England breathed through his nose deeply. "What's truly bothering you, America?"

"Ah – just answer the question."

They exchanged equally irritated glances before England's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine." He closed his green eyes and sat back, relaxing against the couch as his mind seemed to drift away in thought. It was serene to watch, and America smiled lightly. "Freedom… it's like being on the open ocean. Nothing but sea and sky for as far as the eyes can reach. The smell of wood polish and salty water – cool ocean spray on your face… the cries of gulls in the distance." England peeled his eyes open to glance over at America. "Not to mention there were no rules; back in my pirating days, we made our own rules – lived by them." A sluggish smile graced his lips. "But ah… you know how that turned out."

America gave a wry grin. Oh, he'd heard the stories; but hardly any of them came from England himself. He was newly independent during that time – so set on going west; to the west. Those days had been so… tiring. "I'm going to say something really stupid right now, okay? Don't laugh at me," he warned, pointing a finger at England, who merely nodded with an amused quirk of his brow. "When I… I think of freedom like that – I… Do you remember when I was really little, when we'd play in the Great Plains? Just you and me, uh, and a few bison?" He glanced over at England, and the island nation simply spun his fingers a bit as if to say 'go on'. "Well, you remember how you used to pick me up and twirl me around over your head?" He sighed nostalgically at the memory. "I loved that. The wind in my hair, the huge – _huge _sky, and to be with the one person I… I cared about the most. Those were the most freeing moments of my life."

"America…"

The younger nation interrupted with another sigh. "I know, I know – I wasn't even free then. But it certainly felt like it – like I could do whatever I wanted; with you."

"You're completely hopeless," England said lightly, prying the next bottle from America's hands. "Had you already started to drink before you called?" he asked testily. "You're hardly ever this honest when you're not completely pissed."

America quirked a shapely brow. "I'm not mad." He gave a grin at England's agitated glare. "And I'm not drunk, either. I just… I need to stop thinking."

"About what Japan said?"

The younger nation paused, humming softly in thought. "About everything. I mean, things aren't the greatest right now – we both know that; but whenever I try and… think more positive… it's like this weight comes out of nowhere… and I… ugh…" God damn he hated having feelings – even more so expressing them. But it was true. He couldn't think, never, not once, without something slow and dark teetering on the edges of his mind. Like a plague just waiting, poised to strike at any moment. It set him on edge; made his skin crawl.

A sad smile crossed England's face as he leaned in close to America, his hands crawling up to cup the younger nation's face in a warm embrace. "Sometimes, I simply don't know what to do with you," the blond confessed sourly, "If I should slap you, or hug you – I haven't a clue." His green eyes bored into America's bright blue ones, as if trying to scour the depths of the other nation's soul with looks alone. "Most of the time it leans towards slapping."

"Eh… I think I'd prefer the hug." And as if a silent command had been given, England's hands slid from his face and around his shoulders, pulling him in towards the other nation's chest in a comforting hold. "…England?"

Another sigh passed through England's mouth, and America more felt it rustling and winding through the older nation's chest than he heard it. "You are… one of the most moronic people in existence. You're loud, too happy on most occasions, nosey, and not to mention simple," England muttered softly; fondly. His voice lacked any negative connotations, and if anything it seemed… warm. "And yet…" His fingers, hesitant and careful, made his way into America's hair, threading the silky strands methodically between the tips of his fingers. "You're stuck in the past."

"Am not," America protested weakly, twitching his nose against the fabric of England's sweater vest. It smelled exactly like England's house he noted dryly; like tea, must, rain, and candles. "You're the one stuck in the past. Talkin' about wanting to be a pirate and whatnot."

England gave a lofty laugh. "Oh? I just said I liked the ocean, and that I used to be a pirate. I can hop on a ferry anytime I wish. You, however, cannot simply shrink to that of a child and beg me to play "spinners" with you again."

The young nation grimaced. That sounded just as stupid coming from England as it did in his head. He wanted to bury his face in the dirt for even mentioning it. "Whatever…"

"America…"

America breathed in through his nose, trying to capture the last bit of painful familiarity. "Yeah… I'll be fine…" It was a lie and he knew it. The words felt like they had crawled from his lips in an inky mess, staining England's sweater vest.

With an impatient tatting noise, England pushed America's head back gently, his fingers brushing against his temple softly before the older nation touched their foreheads together. "I've an idea," he murmured. England's breath was warm, puffing against America's alcohol numbed cheeks. He was too curious about this idea, the suggestion of a possibility; it was so thought consuming that he forgot to complain about his personal space. "The end of this month I've a little vacation. Why don't we head out to that prairie where we used to play? Hm? It might not be the same as it was back then… You don't have to. It's your choice, America."

His blue eyes slid closed, his nose touching against England's briefly. His choice – his freedom. America thought of the weight that gathered in his chest, the dormant darkness in his mind. They had been his choice, hadn't they? All this time his freedoms had been restricted by his choice – this time he chose to free himself, yet again. At this point, he had nothing left to lose.

"Okay," he mumbled. "Let's do that."


End file.
